Cursed fs-1 Page 5

  “What about any of the teachers at State? Another student perhaps?” I ask.

  Dexter smiles. “When I said she was a fighter, I didn’t mean it literally. Isabella wasn’t dealt an easy hand in life. Her father left when she was a kid. Her mother climbed into the bottle. She had dreams. We both did. But, despite a boatload of hard knocks, Isabella never quit.”

  Zack puts his glass down on the coffee table.

  Michael leans forward and not so discreetly slips a coaster under it; then he chuckles. “It’s strange, the things I worry about. I may eat ice cream for dinner these days, but my boyfriend’s a neat freak, so I still worry about rings on the table. It’s new. We just bought it a week ago.”

  The reference to a boyfriend catches me off guard. “You and Isabella weren’t involved?”

  Now Dexter laughs in earnest. “God, no. She knew I was gay before I did.”

  “Did your boyfriend live here the same time as Isabella?”

  “No. He moved in about a month ago. He met her once or twice before . . .” He pauses, closes his eyes an instant. “Before she disappeared.”

  “Do you know if Isabella knew Amy?”

  He considers my question for a long moment. “No. I don’t think so. At least I don’t recall ever introducing them. Amy and I weren’t all that close. She kept mostly to herself.”

  “Can we ask you to check your cell? See if we can nail down the time and date you went to see her?” I ask.

  “Of course.” Dexter stands with effort, then slowly walks over to the desk where the phone is. A few touches later he answers, “It was the twenty-eighth. She called me around four. I’d guess I was there by four thirty, four forty-five.”

  Zack’s followed him, looks over his shoulder and verifies. “Do you have the number of the taxi service?”

  There’s a nod from Dexter. “It would be the very next one.”

  Zack pulls the notebook back out and makes another quick note.

  I pull out one of my cards and join them.

  I’m tempted to ask to see Isabella’s room, to ask if it’s been disturbed. This revelation has my head spinning as a thousand follow-up questions take form in my mind. Before we jump in further, I want to pull the case files, look at them side by side, and consider the possibilities.

  “Call me if you think of anything else that might help us,” I say, offering Dexter my card.

  He takes it, his expression hopeful. “You’ll really look into Isabella’s case?”

  “We will,” I promise.

  Dexter shows us to the door, holds out his hand. Zack grasps it first, then me. “Thank you,” he says.

  I leave with the usual stock reassurances that I will stay in touch. After all this time, it would be a miracle if we found Isabella alive, or Amy for that matter.

  We came here looking for information on one missing woman. Now suddenly we have two, and I can’t shake the feeling they’re somehow connected.

  “Now what?” Zack asks as I pull out of the driveway.

  “I say we head back to the office and pull Isabella Mancini’s file.”

  • • •

  I call ahead and request Isabella’s case file from the SDPD. By the time we get to the office, it’s waiting on my desk along with another. The second is for a twenty-three-year-old male named Adam Markham.

  “Someone waiting for the Markham file?” I call out.

  Garner, one of the older agents, raises his hand. “That would be me.”

  I stroll over and drop it on his desk. “Another homeless person?”

  He nods. “His conservator says he hasn’t cashed his check for three months. Who knows how long he’s been gone? This one makes eleven. How’s your case coming?”

  I hold up Isabella’s file. “I’m hoping for a break.”

  By the time I return to my desk, Zack’s perusing the information I put together on Amy. He runs his finger down the list of appointments I’d prepared. “I don’t see an appointment with Dexter on the list.”

  “No, but . . .”

  He looks up, catching my hesitation. “What?”

  “Another connection.” I remove a sheet of paper from Isabella’s file and hand it to him. “Check this out.”

  “What am I looking at?”

  “There. Middle of the page. The transcript of Isabella Mancini’s voice mail messages.”

  His eyes scan the page, then go back to the list of Amy’s appointments. “Dr. Alexander Barakov. Amy had an appointment scheduled with Barakov five days before she went missing.” He looks again at the sheet I handed him. “And Isabella had an appointment reminder from the same Barakov. For the day she disappeared.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence.”

  Zack continues to read from Isabella’s police report. “According to this, she never made it. Barakov was questioned but not considered a person of interest.”

  “Until now.” The excitement of the chase starts to build. “I don’t know about you, but I just became very interested. I think we should pay Barakov a visit. I wonder why Dexter didn’t mention Barakov. Think that’s odd?”

  Zack shrugs. “Maybe he didn’t know about it?” The voice mail came from her cell phone dump. My guess is the police didn’t share the information with him. Zack picks up his desk phone and dials, then listens. “The office is closed for the next hour for lunch. Let’s grab some ourselves.”

  He’s already reaching for his keys.

  I grab my purse. “It’s your pick. Where are we going?”

  “Hodad’s. There’s one on Tenth Avenue, not far from Barakov’s.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “How do you know about Hodad’s? You’ve been in town less than a week.”

  He glances in my direction as we wait for the elevator. “Are you kidding? I’ve been on a quest for the perfect burger since I was nine. Red meat and I have enjoyed a long and deeply satisfying relationship. My last partner was a vegetarian. After the first week we decided to split up for lunch. He couldn’t be within ten feet of meat without unleashing a lecture. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against veggies but—”

  “You’re a carnivore to the core, huh?” I say. It takes me a second to realize how true that statement is. Zack doesn’t seem to catch any hidden meaning. Why would he? He doesn’t know that I know of his other nature.

  He checks the time on his cell. “It’s going to be crowded this time of day and I bet parking is hell downtown. I’ll drop you so you can order. I’d like to try to catch Barakov before he starts seeing his afternoon patients.”

  “What do you want?” I ask. We step into the elevator. The doors close.

  “Order me a double bacon cheeseburger, rare.”

  Double bacon cheeseburger? Rare?

  Oh yeah. Carnivore.

  CHAPTER 5

  As Zack feared, there’s a line in front of Hodad’s when he lets me out. Thankfully, most are employees from nearby offices who have come for to-go orders. The wait for a table turns out to be much shorter than I expected. In fact, it takes Zack longer to find a parking spot. I’ve just finished ordering when he finally walks in. He spots me and heads for the table.

  “Have you ordered?”

  Service at Hodad’s is quick—the faster you get your food, the faster the table turns over. Before I have a chance to answer, a waitress appears with our drinks, a combo basket of fries and rings, and a beaming smile.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asks, turning up the wattage even further for Zack.

  “Just the burgers,” he says.

  “Right!”

  “Let’s see how these compare to yesterday’s pitiful offering,” Zack says, reaching for an onion ring.

  If the expression on Zack’s face is any indication, he’s in nirvana.

  “Well?” I pick up a fry and dip it in ketchup.

  “We might need more of these.”

  Zack continues to work on the onion rings.

  I venture a question. “So, when did you live in San Dieg
o?”

  Zack doesn’t acknowledge me or the question.

  “Zack?” I persist, determined to get an answer out of him. “You never mentioned living in San Diego when we worked together in Charleston.”

  He continues dipping onion rings in ketchup as if that stalling tactic is going to work. Persistence is my middle name. I fix him with a laser beam stare. But when he finally looks up, it’s to watch the approaching waitress, who arrives, burgers in hand. Zack’s is so big it’s almost embarrassing to be seen with it. He attacks it with both the zealousness of the true believer and the relief of a condemned man granted a reprieve.

  “Oh my God.” Zack’s eyes roll toward the heavens.

  I show a little more restraint eating my burger. But I do have to admit, in San Diego, Hodad’s is by far the best burger joint. I decide to let him eat in peace before I launch the attack again. Gives me a chance to enjoy my burger, too.

  We finish up and wipe the evidence from our faces. Zack relaxes back on the bench and gives his stomach a satisfied rub. “Now, that was good.”

  “How could you tell? You inhaled that burger.”

  He laughs. “And you didn’t?”

  “Mine was a tiny baby burger compared to your monstrosity.” I stir my Coke with my straw and glance at my watch. “Now that we have a few minutes, you can tell me about your stay in San Diego. How do you know the city so well? And how come you never mentioned living here?”

  Zack looks away, across the restaurant, toward the door, down at the table. Everywhere but at me. That same flash of sadness—of regret—that I felt in the elevator yesterday is back again. I fight a completely inappropriate impulse to reach for his hand.

  “Seems like a lifetime ago,” he says at last. “One I’d rather not revisit.”

  I can relate to that. It’s not the same with me, of course. With me, it has literally been one new life after the other. It isn’t easy to resist the urge to press. I’m crazy with curiosity to know his story. And to learn more about the woman in the parking lot, Sarah. But I know how to be patient, to wait till the time is right.

  Zack crushes his napkin, tosses it onto the table. “If we want to catch the good doctor before he starts on his afternoon schedule, we’d better head out.” He catches the eye of a nearby waitress. “Check please?”

  I watch Zack take care of the bill, head to the car without looking back to see if I was following him or not.

  I’ve obviously touched a nerve.

  • • •

  Dr. Alexander Barakov, a board-certified plastic surgeon, has his office on the third floor of a recently renovated building overlooking Petco Park downtown. When the ballpark was built, the stadium initiated a wave of regentrification in the neighborhood, but Zack and I still have to step over and around the sleeping bags and carts stored under the parking lot portico awaiting the return of the street people who make this area their home. The day is unusually hot for this time of year, and those who haven’t already headed downtown to panhandle are clustered together in the shade. I feel their eyes on us as we walk past, feel a myriad of emotions in their glances. Sadness, jealousy, hunger, desperation. It casts a pall on my own emotions.

  It’s a relief to enter the dim coolness of Barakov’s building. The foyer directory sends us to Suite 301.

  The office is luxurious. The waiting area looks more like someone’s living room than a holding tank for patients. There are elegantly upholstered sofas and chairs and glass cases containing fine art pieces, but not one visible patient. A woman is standing behind a desk of polished mahogany. She has a headset in her ear and looks up at us in polite interest as we approach.

  “Can I help you?”

  Her tone is friendly but professional. It matches the carefully coiffed hair, subtle makeup, and understated jewelry. Her features are even and without flaw, and her outfit seems designed to accentuate her perfectly symmetrical Barbie doll figure—formfitting blouse, pencil skirt. I suspect she’s a walking advertisement for her employer.

  There is a nameplate on the desk that reads SILVIA BARTON. Zack flashes his badge. “We’d like a moment of Dr. Barakov’s time, Ms. Barton.”

  Barton barely spares the badge or me a glance. Her eyes linger a little longer on Zack before she sits. “Let me check the doctor’s schedule for you, Agent . . .”

  “Armstrong. This is Special Agent Monroe.”

  She consults a screen on the computer next to her. “He’s in consultation now, but he will have a few moments between appointments. Would you care to wait?”

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  Before we can take seats, she asks, “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?”

  Zack requests coffee, cream, two sugars.

  “A bottle of water would be nice.” From me.

  Barton disappears behind a door. She returns in a moment with a tray. On it there’s coffee for Zack in a china cup and water for me—in a glass.

  I take the glass, a little surprised. Except in restaurants, almost everyone uses bottled water these days. Or disposable cups. The thought must telegraph itself through my expression, because Barton smiles.

  “Dr. Barakov is a committed environmentalist,” she says. “No plastic bottles.”

  I’ve lifted the glass to my lips, but my hand stops in midair. “A plastic surgeon who doesn’t believe in plastic?”

  Barton doesn’t see the irony. She frowns at me. “No plastic. No unnecessary paper products. In fact, we’re almost completely paperless here.”

  “Admirable,” I say, rolling my eyes at Zack over the rim of the glass.

  Zack raises his eyebrows at me and takes his coffee over to the windows that span the far wall of the waiting room. There’s a clear view of the baseball field. “It looks like the doctor’s got the best seats in the house. I assume he’s a Padres fan?” Before Barton can answer the question, he turns to her and shoots off another. “Is it my imagination or is the tint on this window changing?”

  “They’re called smart windows,” she answers, giving him her full attention. “A firm that specializes in green architecture renovated the building before we moved in two years ago. Special insulation, roofing, and those windows that tint automatically to control the temperature and ensure privacy.”

  Like Amy’s shades, I think. Going green has become a mantra in Southern California.

  A door opens somewhere down the hall and Barton moves back to the desk. She pushes a button and speaks a few words into her headset before looking up.

  “Dr. Barakov will see you now.”

  She moves ahead of us, walking gracefully down the long corridor. The sounds of her stilettos on the wooden flooring announce our approach. We pass several closed doors before she stops at one near the end of the hall and holds it open.

  Barakov is seated behind another mahogany desk—this one bigger and more ornate than his receptionist’s. He rises at our entrance and comes to meet us. The doctor is impeccably dressed in a well-tailored suit, most probably custom made, given that he’s shorter than I am, and well-polished loafers. Carefully cut hair accents a perfectly oval face and smooth, high forehead. His stature, hair, and finely chiseled features remind me of Nero. I wonder what else he might have in common with the ruthless tyrant who foolishly burned down nearly half of Rome.

  Barakov takes our proffered hands and urges us to sit.

  Zack tells him why we’re here. Gives me a chance to scope the place out. The office is at the front of the building. There’s lots of glass here, too, but it’s just as coolly comfortable as the reception area. Besides the desk and wall of windows, there are bookcases lining two walls. A couch is positioned in front of one, along with a coffee table with a fan of current news magazines. Behind the desk is the largest ego wall I’ve ever seen. There are well over a dozen diplomas and certificates, not to mention framed magazine articles about Barakov’s work, and an impressive array of signed celebrity photos. On the desk Barakov has a computer with a flat-screen monitor, an i
n-box with two or three stacked files, and a set for holding clips, pens, and pencils.

  There is also a door in the back of the office. For the confidentiality of patients, I presume. A way for them to discreetly come and go, avoiding the reception area.

  When Barakov hears Amy Patterson’s name, a concerned frown darkens his face. “I was shocked when I read about Amy in the papers yesterday. I don’t see how I can help you, though. There is an issue of privacy in terms of my consultations with her, and I certainly don’t think I know anything that could shed light on her disappearance.”

  Zack is frowning, too. His frown doesn’t reflect concern. It’s deliberate, with a touch of menace thrown in. It’s the disapproving frown of a hard-nosed cop, the stereotypical “bad cop” who doesn’t like the answer he’s getting. Or, in this case, the answer he’s not getting. Zack clearly thinks Barakov is stonewalling. “We aren’t asking you to break doctor/patient confidentiality,” he says, his tone clipped, sharp. “We’re asking if she kept her appointment.”

  Apparently it’s time for Basic Interrogation 101. I assume my role of “good cop,” keeping my voice soft, suppliant. “You may have been the last person to see Amy. You must understand how important it is that we establish a timeline. Any help you give us brings us one step closer to finding her.”

  Barakov fastens his gaze on my more sympathetic face. After a few seconds, his expression softens. “Very well.”

  “We really appreciate it.”

  I shoot Zack a subtle approving glance. He meets my eyes and winks.

  Barakov has turned to his computer. He punches a few keys, and then scrolls up and down the screen. “Yes,” he says finally. “She kept her appointment. She left at eleven a.m.” He narrows his eyes at Zack. “That’s all I can tell you.”

  Zack has produced a small notebook and pen from his jacket and makes a notation. Then, without the least bit of hesitation, he casually asks, “And what about Isabella Mancini?”

  “Isabella Mancini?” Barakov asks, eyebrows furrowing.

  I expected the same kind of rebuff we initially received when mentioning Amy, but Barakov’s demeanor is decidedly different.